


Pressure Points

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler was dead. Had been, in one form or another, for almost two years now. Dead, and almost-but-not-quite forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post “The Reichenbach Fall”, death seems somewhat relative. That’s the beginning. The end is surely Sherlock Holmes, back on Baker Street, solving crimes. This is just that bit in the middle.

Irene Adler was dead. Had been, in one form or another, for almost two years now. Dead and almost-but-not-quite forgotten.

  
So, when World News reported the shame and suicide of the once famous fake consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, the Woman Who Was Once Irene Adler sucked in an involuntarily sharp breath and kept her eyes fixed on the screen before quickly excusing herself from the table. Lunch dates and coworkers entirely forgotten.

 

Though she kept her gait unhurried and steady, her pulse pounded in her ears.

 

Sherlock Holmes, a fraud? Impossible.

 

Sherlock Holmes, dead? By _suicide_ , of all things? Impossible.

 

Which is why when, two days later, the Woman Who Was Once Irene Adler entered her sitting room to find the Former Sherlock Holmes lounging on her favorite chair, hands steepled under his chin and looking as alive as ever, she found her pulse elevated in what was both surprise and very much not.

 

Irene arched one eyebrow, instantly feeling more herself than she had her entire time in America. “Dinner?”

 

That got his attention. His gaze seared up and down her quickly, surely noting down hundreds of subtle (glaring) observations about the “new” her. “Isn’t that line becoming a tad trite?”

 

His weary impatience was palpable but there was a hint of teasing to his voice. Irene countered with her sauciest smile. “Not until you say yes.”

 

He stared her down but didn’t deign to respond. That was all right with her – she could read him just as well without words. A long, intense moment passed. Finally, she took pity on him. As lovely as it was making him uncomfortable... “Well, I’ll just throw something together then, shall I? Since you have no opinion.”

 

His mouth immediately snapped open. Sherlock Holmes had an opinion on everything. She ignored him, heading blithely into the kitchen. He followed, rather predictably, and perched on her kitchen worktop – right where he was guaranteed to be the most infuriatingly in her way. Of course.

 

Two could play that game. Irene stretched her whole body across his lap to reach for the cutting board, setting it up right next to him, and brushed against his knees as she went to grab tomatoes and lettuce. The half of her mind that wasn’t occupied in teasing Sherlock had been contemplating her semi-usual salad for dinner, but she quickly decided to put some pasta on as well. Sherlock was not the best at taking care of himself (if John’s whinging was to be believed, which she imagined it was), and he had died recently. It was the least she could do to pull together a proper dinner.

With his eyes tracking her every move, Irene felt as though she were back in her old clothes, life, body, mind, skin. Nothing could have been less Irene Adler: cooking pasta in a reasonable kitchen in a modest little flat. But it was there all the same. Irene Adler, dominatrix: resurrected. It felt – brilliant.

 

Still musing at how domestic and surreal this whole evening felt, Irene finished gathering the rest of the ingredients from the cupboard and set water to boil for the pasta, making sure to press her body against Sherlock’s not-quite-that-much-in-the-way-one as much as possible. She even rested her hand on his knee as she idly stirred the sauce.

 

Honestly, she hadn’t had this much fun in a kitchen without being naked, well, ever. Pity they weren’t naked. She’d have to see about fixing that next time.

 

When Irene turned to begin chopping the tomatoes, Sherlock had already collected her favorite knife and was toying with it absently. Irene was rather expecting him to embed it in the cutting board just for show – she’d seen his kitchen table – but he flipped it end over end and placed it in her outstretched palm, handle first. They kept their eyes locked as his fingers brushed her palm before Irene brandished the knife with a flourish and turned back to the tomatoes. “You trust me not to stab you in the back then?”

 

“I’ve hardly turned my back on you, have I?” Sherlock scoffed, sitting ramrod straight on her worktop, voice matter-of-fact.

 

“No,” Irene mused, making quick work of the tomatoes and abandoning them in favor of leaning her hands against the worktop on either side of Sherlock’s knees, one still holding the knife. “But then, you've not been able to take your eyes off of me.”

 

Sherlock’s hands came down to cup hers, quickly pinning her palm and the knife against the worktop. Irene let her gaze linger on his hand over hers for a long moment before raising questioning eyes to meet his. When she finally did, she was glad to have his hands grounding hers. The intensity was overwhelming - his gaze scorching through her and leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

 

The moment burned between them. Irene was stood between his legs, leaning forward into him. They were only touching where his hands covered hers, but palpable heat came crackling across the centimeters separating the rest of them. Irene’s hand twitched, loosening her grip over the knife to lay flat under his.

 

It was Sherlock who broke eye contact, shifting his gaze toward their hands as he slowly released hers, lingering in what might have been a tender caress before he extracted the knife and set it aside. His posture was too perfect, highlighting the fact that even the slightest twitch forward would bring them into intimately close contact. “Shall I?”

 

Irene blinked, but even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t read her mind. The moment was broken. “By all means.”

 

She stepped back and turned toward the range to steady her pulse, noting that Sherlock’s breath hitched slightly as he dropped effortlessly off the worktop and took over chopping the vegetables with a flourish of the knife that had nothing to do with culinary skills.

 

Irene fought the urge to brace herself against the range as she had just been against the worktop. Perhaps she shouldn’t be as surprised as she was – intensity had always been a practically visceral tension crackling between them – but it had been a long time and it still took her breath away. She hadn’t counted on them both being so affected. Irene was left with the insane urge to laugh – struck with the thought that they were both fighting a battle for control that neither was going to win.

 

They finished making dinner in silence that could almost have been considered comfortable, given the individuals involved. Irene supposed it was more surprising that either of them possessed any cooking skills at all, and idly wondered the last time Sherlock had made a proper meal. She spent far too much time speculating about Sherlock, but now that he was here, Irene found no point in even attempting to curtail such thoughts.

 

They moved around one another in the small kitchen with seeming ease, but both were careful not to brush too close. Despite his claims to the contrary, Sherlock did turn his back several more times to finish chopping ingredients for the salad and sauce. Though, Irene noted with amusement, he kept the knife-rack in front of him at these times. She took some perverse pleasure in reaching around him to grab the bread knife.

 

Irene was just rinsing the lettuce when it was her turn to be startled. Without any warning, Sherlock was pressed up behind her, so close that she could feel the crisp fabric of his trousers brushing against her calves. She hadn't heard him cross the kitchen with the water running. While Irene held her breath, not sure she should move, Sherlock reached around her to rinse his knife under her water, the wet glint of it a flash of silver across her vision.

 

Just as quickly as he had crowded her, Sherlock was shaking water from the knife and turning back to the cutting board. Irene spun after him, just fast enough to see the vaguest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She gave him an exasperated look and received an arched eyebrow in reply.

 

Not only did he still not trust her in her own kitchen, but he'd apparently decided that turnabout was fair play. Irene cursed silently, quickly turning to finish the last of the dinner preparations. If both of them were playing, this game suddenly seemed like it could get rather out of hand. And Irene always valued maintaining the upper hand.

 

...

 

Sherlock set the table perfectly. Irene was left with the distinct impression that he could have easily arranged it for a full five-course dinner, had one been at hand. Struck with a sudden urge to attend one of those ridiculous high-class gala banquets of her former life with Sherlock on her arm, Irene shook her head in amusement. Sherlock was certainly fully of surprises.

 

Instead of wine, Irene brought out her good bottle of scotch, pouring them both glasses without asking and setting Sherlock’s down in the correct place setting before she moved toward her own seat, deliberately casual. “Mr. Holmes, I have it on good authority that you are recently deceased.”

 

Sherlock snorted, eyes moving subtly between her and his scotch. “The news of my death is greatly exaggerated.”

 

“On purpose.” It wasn’t really a question.

 

Sherlock met her eyes with steel. “Of course.” His distain was evident, though whether it was at the topic of conversation or the incident in question, it was impossible to decipher.

 

“Well then,” Irene leaned forward across the table, raising her glass expectantly, “A toast. Welcome to the underworld, Mr. Holmes. There is no rest for the wicked.”

 

Sherlock tilted his head slightly but finally raised his glass to hers. They both drained their glasses in one long swallow, choking down the scotch as though its smoothness could belie the slightly bitter and all too true ring of Irene’s words, innuendo aside.

 

After a long moment, Irene sat back and picked up her fork. Sherlock copied her movements, though he probably regarded dinner as something purely perfunctory.

 

They didn’t talk about Karachi or their parting there. She didn’t ask how he faked his death (he’d not asked her the last time, after all). She was sure it was appropriately brilliant and flashy. And he said she liked too much flair. Honestly.

 

...

 

After the food was put away and washing up finished, they settled in her sitting room with fresh tumblers of scotch. Sherlock having once again taken up residence on her favorite chair, Irene retaliated by sprawling as provocatively along her sofa as possible, propped up on one elbow so that she could sip her scotch and observe Sherlock.

 

She was content to watch him stare at something beyond her shoulder, scotch forgotten on the coffee table in front of him, for a long time. Irene loved looking at Sherlock. When he was like this she was free to stare as long and openly as she liked, and oh did she like. She could almost see the deductions skirting across his eyes by the way they darted, or how one cheek muscle twitched. It was something of a game, to be able to so blatantly observe him without the slightest hint of what he was thinking or feeling. It was refreshing.

 

Still, this wasn’t a game if Moriarty was involved – Irene had learned that lesson the hard way, and she prided herself on having the discipline to learn her lessons the first time. Irene took another sip of her scotch; amused to note that Sherlock’s eyes half followed the motion. Well, he couldn’t be that busy with brainwork then. “I presume this was part of foiling Moriarty’s final plan?”

 

Proving that he hadn’t been quite as ensconced in his own mind as he would have had her believe, Sherlock responded instantly. “Not quite.”

 

Irene kept her eyes on his, one finger idly tracing the rim of her glass. “Oh?”

 

Instead of following the motion of her hand, Sherlock abruptly met her eyes, leaning forward to clasp his hands over his knees, words like a whip in the still air of the sitting room. “Moriarty is dead. But his web of _lies_ remains. It is a network. One that I intend to bring down.”

 

Paying no heed to his agitation, Irene set her glass on the table and pulled herself into a sitting position, tucking her legs under her. She kept her voice thoughtful but unperturbed. “Then you will need to stay out of circulation for a while. Let your death settle in. I should know - I’ve died myself, more than once.”

 

She just liked watching him glower at the thought of having to voice his intention to stay with her. She could see him trying out and discarding ideas. Immediate and unconditional irritation at her being too stupid to follow, then the realization that she’d followed just fine and that he might have to actually ask for her help. In the end though, she couldn’t bear to hear him beg (not in this context, at least). “The spare room is made up. Unless you’d prefer to share...?”

 

Without a word, Sherlock retrieved a hereto discrete duffle from under his seat and moved unerringly to her guest room, slamming the door behind him.

 

Irene picked up his discarded scotch and, turning off the lights, followed him down the hallway. She couldn’t resist pressing her ear against his door, even though she already knew there would be nothing to hear. On an exhale, her lips traced words against the rough wood, “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

 

After a moment, Irene turned and continued to her room one door further down, sipping her scotch thoughtfully.

 

...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm bored."
> 
> "So you decided to take over my bed?"

Irene paused for a moment before exiting the bath, considering. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she proceeded to her bedroom as usual - in the nude. Sherlock's door was closed and the flat was quiet. Shrugging, Irene continued back to her room.

 

Where she found Sherlock sprawled across her bed in his striped pajamas, hands steepled under his chin. He sat up as soon as she entered but made no move to either comment or leave. Irene turned to her vanity and eyed him from the mirror as she donned her jewelry. Clearly any conversation would have to start with her. "Pleasant dreams?"

 

"I'm bored." Came the acerbic reply.

 

"So you came to my bed?" She raised one eyebrow, turning to regard Sherlock with one hand on her hip. "How bold, Mr. Holmes."

 

Sherlock shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "You started it."

 

Ah. "Tit for tat? But I'm afraid the rules of my bed are rather different from yours."

 

Irene straddled him before he had a chance to protest, unwrapping the towel from her hair and dropping it to the side, shaking her curls free around her shoulders. She settled astride his lap, as naked as when they first met. Sherlock remained impassive under her and they eyed one another in an elaborate game of cat and mouse, holding everything but their breaths still.

 

"You're bluffing," Sherlock stated. Calm except for the cynicism that crept into his expression.

 

Irene leaned even closer, one eyebrow arched again. Challenging. "Are you quite certain?"

 

Affecting his most bored expression, Sherlock recited, "You have to leave for work in 46 minutes. It takes at least half of that for you to style your hair - can't show up with it a mess. Do you really think you have time to enforce your _rules_ and make it to work on time?"

 

Irene let out her breath in a huff, rolling neatly off Sherlock's lap and the bed before she bent to scoop up her towel and continued to her dresser to find her clothing. "I could always call out sick."

 

"You won't."

 

There was no point. Sherlock was confident in his deductions and he was right. As intriguing as it was to have Sherlock sprawled across her bed, Irene hardly had any time to explore where that could lead. She doubted anywhere. At the moment. "Next time you invade my bedroom claiming boredom, it might be a different story."

 

Sherlock met her eyes in the mirror. "Perhaps."

 

And she couldn't tell if that was an agreement or a challenge or which she would prefer. "Since you're here - make yourself useful and zip me up."

 

Irene lifted her hair off her neck, feeling a few drops of water drip down her still exposed spine as she slipped the sleeves of her dress over her shoulders, head tilted down to keep the water out of her eyes.

 

To her surprise, a warm hand came to rest over her shoulder, finishing slipping up her straps and steadying her zip as he slid it up, fingers just brushing across her back to swipe away the lingering water droplets. Irene held her breath against her will, resisting the urge to arch back into the sleepy warmth of Sherlock's body just behind her.

 

When he stepped back, Irene had the distinct impression that they were still playing a game where the points needed to tie the score kept escalating. "Thank you." Amused, she turned to her hair, dyed a honeyed blonde that made her look softer and younger and nothing at all like herself, which was the point entirely.

 

Sherlock made an economical gesture clearly implying that it was basic manners, though she doubted even his pedigreed upbringing included manners for helping a naked woman to dress when one had invited themselves into her room in the first place. "Anything else?"

 

It was clearly sarcastic. Irene ignored his tone and the fact that he was flopped bonelessly back into her bed. "Tea would be lovely, actually."

 

Sherlock scowled. "Trying to get rid of me?"

 

Irene shrugged, putting the last few pins into her hair - nothing like her former elaborate hairdos of another lifetime - just a simple loose bun. "Just trying to assuage your boredom. Unless you're rather I use those other methods?"

 

"Tea or bondage. What an atypical conundrum." Sherlock shrugged again and let himself out of her room - to the kitchen, she hoped.

 

...

 

She found Sherlock dressed but sprawled in much the same position across the sofa. Defiantly, she thought. But tea had been set out neatly on a tray on the table and he had remembered how she took it.

 

She slipped on practical heels, not even a hint of height or leather to link her to her former self, and sat across from him.

 

He stubbornly looked elsewhere, though she could feel him observing her out of the corner of his eye.

 

She sipped her tea gratefully and regarded him, trying to discern his motives and wants and thoughts and desires.

 

"Your tea will get cold." She eventually observed, taking another sip of hers to drive home the point. Her tea was already cooling and she had hardly noticed, lost in observing him. The mysterious consulting detective sprawled petulantly across her sofa.

 

He responded by chugging his tea in one uncouth gulp. Purely to spite her. Sherlock Holmes was far too refined to habitually gulp his tea. He set his cup down in the saucer and smirked at her, challenging. "You'll be late."

 

Irene startled but refused to let it show. She had lost track of time. A quick calculation and she responded without glancing at the clock. "I have five minutes."

 

Sherlock scoffed. "Only if you speed."

 

Setting down her teacup and saucer, Irene merely winked. "I do so enjoy opportunities to misbehave."

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and closed it firmly again - apparently deciding that whatever rejoinder he had in mind would only encourage her. He was probably right. Irene plucked her coat from its rack and picked up her case. "Now be a good boy while I'm out. I would so hate to have to restrain you."

 

That was a lie and they both knew it.

 

But Sherlock merely scoffed, the hint of what might have been a smile turning up his lips. "You're welcome to try."

 

"Oh there would be no trying involved. Begging, perhaps," and it certainly wouldn't have been her begging.

 

Irene slipped out the door before Sherlock could goad her into being late for work just to prove his point.

 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in following this story - reviews mean the world! This chapter is a bit shorter, I know, but the next bit is coming along ~~and shouldn't be nearly so long of a wait~~ eventually, I promise!


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